


In Memoriam

by Footloose



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-08-30 11:11:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8530771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Footloose/pseuds/Footloose
Summary: Sometimes it's time to let go of grief and to remember those lost with love.





	

_"Papa's gone."_

Some days, Merlin remembered the way his Mum squeezed his hand comfortingly before pulling him close for a full-bodied hug, holding him through the shuddering, sobbing wracks that left him sore and bruised for days afterward. She would brush his hair out of his eyes, tuck an errant curl around his ear, and thumb away his tears. 

Other days, like today, Merlin remembered nothing but the gut-punch that came with learning that his father was still alive. The betrayal had burned like fire, and it still burned him, like a scalded wound, as he stared down at his father's gravestone.

Footsteps on dry brush were all the warning he had that he was no longer alone. Merlin forced his hands to unclench and willed away the tears that threatened to spill down his cheeks.

"Is it terrible that I still can't forgive him? I mean, I forgave my Mum. I rationalized it in my head that he made her lie to me and to everyone all that time. I understand why she'd do it. Fuck. I'd lie for you if you asked me to. I'd _kill_ for you --" Merlin swallowed thickly. He _had_ killed for Arthur. More than once, under the veil of war, and even afterward, while protecting him from his enemies. Some of it Arthur even knew. There were other times Arthur had no idea what he'd done.

Arthur's arm was heavy and warm across his shoulders. Merlin didn't resist when Arthur pressed a kiss to his forehead.

"And I think what would happen if it were us. If one of us had to leave. What would we even tell Aithusa?" Merlin's voice broke. "We'd do the same thing, wouldn't we?"

Arthur's sigh was soft. His breath ruffled Merlin's hair. The silence dragged for a while, compounded by a few hesitating attempts to talk, and finally, Arthur said, "We can't know that without being in that sort of situation ourselves."

"Ugh," Merlin said, because, of course, Arthur had to be logical and objective.

"I want to think we'd stick it out," Arthur said. "We're not cowards and we damn well wouldn't show it. We'd barricade every door, arm every corner, protect Aithusa with our lives, and we'd take them all down."

"Yeah," Merlin said. He wiped his face, catching a tear before it made its way down his cheek. He steeled himself for the _But_ that he knew was coming.

"But that's a big pot of lies," Arthur said. Merlin elbowed him, but Arthur only tightened his hold. "You and I both know exactly what the fuck we'd do."

Merlin made a protesting noise.

"What we have done. It's not even a question, because we've done it," Arthur said firmly, effectively silencing Merlin. "I'm not going to ask you about any of it. And I'm not going to tell where I've gone wrong. But we've been in those situations a few times already, haven't we?"

Merlin closed his eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Just like I have no idea why you left your phone behind last month, dropped Aithusa off with Hunith and Balinor, and disappeared for the weekend when I was in London," Arthur said. "Or why the Beretta wasn't in its usual place in the gun vault come that Monday morning when you made the full English breakfast with all my favourites when I returned home."

"Still no idea," Merlin said weakly. "Speaking of, I was wondering where the H&K is."

"Maybe you misplaced it," Arthur said, too quickly.

Merlin narrowed his eyes.

"The point is," Arthur said, studiously avoiding Merlin's gaze and nodding toward the gravestone, "We do what we have to. It might not be the best thing or the smartest thing. It might be the only thing we can come up with at the time. And we've got no idea, do we? What Balinor had had to deal with, or what was going through his head, or how terrified he was that something would happen to his family. To his son."

Merlin glanced at Arthur and let his focus drift past him, into the aura of grief that had arisen in Arthur's tone. There were no innocents in the war. No single person to blame for how it came about. Balinor Emrys had been in the same group of specialists who had recovered and archived magical artefacts as Uther Pendragon, and both had handled the outcome with a lack of grace, with selfish blinders, and an appalling absence of empathy.

Arthur had no more reconciled with his father than Merlin had with his own. Family gatherings were stiff and awkward, a necessity that was tolerated only because Aithusa insisted on knowing both sets of grandparents. Morgana refused to see or speak to Uther, and a part of Arthur feared what would happen if Uther was cast adrift.

They were a pair, Merlin realized. Neither of them were willing to leave their fathers out of their sights in case Uther or Balinor decided to go astray yet once again. Neither one of them were willing to forgive them, either.

"I was thinking of getting rid of it," Merlin said, sniffling. He couldn't look at the gravestone anymore. It was just a rock -- flat on one side where his magic had scraped it clean; crudely carved in child-like stencil with Balinor's name and the date that the military official had come knocking on their door.

The area around the stone was overgrown with grass and spindly wildflowers. The trail up to the spot had been well-worn, once, but neglect and disrepair had hidden it from sight. If Merlin hadn't climbed up the hill using his sense memory, he wouldn't have stumbled upon it easily.

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah," Merlin said. He shrugged. "Not something someone ever wants to stumble on, yeah? Their own gravestone."

The government had settled; the upheaval in Britain had calmed, somewhat. Though Camelot was growing into a city of its own, Merlin's Mum and Balinor had decided to come home to Ealdor. The team had helped them move back, hauling containers of personal belongings from the moving lorries to the house and food and medical supplies to the town, where Hunith was planning on re-opening the small clinic until the local hospital was up and running again. 

Normalcy had returned quicker to the bigger cities than it had to the backcountry villages, but the sense of community was stronger, the people more self-sufficient here than they were elsewhere. But Ealdor was lacking in infrastructure, medical personnel, and defence against gangs who continued to terrorize the countryside, and they would welcome Hunith's return, just like they would be overjoyed to discover Allan, Will's father, was also coming back. The villagers wouldn't know what to think of Balinor or the men of his old unit, but they wouldn't refuse the help.

"Or you could leave it," Balinor suggested.

Arthur immediately turned around, a gun in his hand that Merlin hadn't noticed him carrying. Merlin's reaction wasn't much better, though; his magic had flared up and was dancing around his outstretched hand.

Balinor jerked back into the relative cover of the thick trees and shrubs, holding up both hands in non-threatening apology. Arthur lowered his weapon almost at once, holstering it, but Merlin wasn't anywhere as quick in reining in his magic.

"I apologize," Balinor said, his expression guarded and neutral. "I should know better than to sneak up behind you two."

"You damn well should," Arthur said, prickly the way he always was when they were interrupted. Merlin wouldn't react any differently, because one-on-one alone time with Arthur was rare, fleeting, and precious. Unwanted visitors were worth assassinations and all the consequences that came with it. "What do you want, Balinor?"

"Your mother is making lunch," Balinor said, ignoring Arthur. He was trying not to stare at the gravestone and failing miserably.

Merlin exchanged a glance with Arthur. He nodded at Arthur's questioning look. Arthur squeezed Merlin's arm and headed back the way they came, brushing roughly past Balinor. The two of them would never get on, Merlin suspected, but both seemed content to keep the animosity.

"We've got our phones," Merlin said, once Arthur was gone. "There's cell coverage in the area, even if it's a bit spotty. And any one of the team is in better shape than you are, you didn't need to come hiking all this way."

"Your mother…" Balinor repeated, shaking his head. He gestured at the gravestone. "She told me about this." He paused. "It was before… Before I was able to get in touch with her to let her know that I was alive. I wanted to see it."

Merlin said nothing. His hands bunched up in fists again. If this was going to be another one of those times where Balinor was going to beat his chest in despair and contrition, Merlin didn't want to hear it.

"I'm not going to tell you how much I hate that this is here," Balinor began, seemingly oblivious to the crackle of magic sparking from Merlin's hands. "But I was glad to know that you had… something. Something to hold onto. A place to grieve."

Merlin's jaw clenched.

"You should leave it," Balinor said again. "It's a symbol of your loss, of your pain."

"Of your mistake," Merlin snapped.

Balinor tilted his head, his mouth twitching. "We'll agree to disagree on that one."

They stared at each other for a while. Balinor was the one who looked away first. He ducked his chin and turned away; his shoulders curled inward, avoiding eye contact. It was the body language of someone who was trying to make himself less threatening, to say with actions what he couldn't in words. That was something that Merlin had noticed about Balinor since he was "resurrected" -- fewer words spoken than when Merlin was a child, a propensity for odd movements. Merlin wondered if this was a side effect of being in hiding, in isolation, with the dragons on his team for so long.

Maybe he sensed that Merlin didn't understand what he was trying to say, because he stopped at the pinch point on the trail and half-turned to look at Merlin. "You're angry and you're never going to forgive me. I don't expect you to. I can't be the father you remember ever again, but I'm hoping that, someday, I can be the father you need."

"You --"

Balinor left without staying to hear any more, and Merlin's magic flared bright, sparking the blue-white of a blistering arc welder. Grass burned, branches blistered, and Merlin released a huff of frustration, getting his magic under control before he set the entire hillside on fire. He doused the flames, dissipated the smoke before it alerted anyone, and in his last few checks to make sure he got everything, he noticed that the gravestone had cracked in two, a black scorch mark smearing across the letters that had once been fingerpainted in stone.

"Shite," Merlin said, running his hands through his hair. He knelt in front of the stone and stared, suddenly too tired and worn to do anything but be surprised by his own anger. He had every right to be angry. He could be angry for as long as he lived if he damn well wanted. But how he'd reacted to Balinor's words…

Merlin reached out and touched the gravestone, regretting the damage. Merlin-the-boy had doted on the memorial because it was the only place he could go to see his dad. To talk to him. To show him how well he was doing in school, even though he really hated his teachers, and some of the kids in his grade weren't as nice as Will. There had been no body to bury, no official gravesite.

Merlin wasn't sure when it happened, but somehow, the stone had become a shrine to a man who had probably never been anything other than a hero in Merlin's mind, but who was really only a man, mistakes and all. The Balinor who had returned from the dead could never be the man that Merlin had long grieved for.

Maybe it was time to let go.

Merlin's magic licked at the stone, as if to soothe the broken, charred edges. It traced over the wonky lettering, setting them alight one by one -- _In memmoream_.

He closed his eyes.

Balinor was right that this was a place of loss, of grief. It shouldn't be a shrine to someone who didn't deserve it.

Merlin wiped his palm down the cracked stone, using his magic to push it back together, to wipe away the rest of the crude lettering. He poured his sadness into his magic, fuelling it with the memories of everything and everyone that he and the team had ever lost during the war, that they still lost each and every day.

His fallen brothers and sisters in arms. Civilians who had struck up the cause. An old woman who gave them what little they had and bade them well on their way; the farmer who had let them sleep in the barn to get shelter from the rain. The boy who had shown them a faster way through the city, the little girl who pretended she hadn't seen them running past when the enemy demanded answers.

All the sacrifices people had made. All the suffering. And amidst all that, the joy they'd carved out for themselves, the little shelter of peace they'd managed to build.

Merlin didn't know how long he knelt in the cold, damp grass, but when he opened his eyes, the sun was setting, his stomach was growling, and the childhood shrine had become a haven of blooming flowers of every colour of the rainbow, bigger and brighter here than they would be in any cherished garden anywhere. 

The stone was whole once again, and the childhood lettering had shifted into an elegant cursive -- _In memoriam_ \-- and glittered with sun-kissed light.


End file.
